When Rain Clouds Become Rainbows

Last week I decided I needed to get out of Dhaka, so a group of interns and myself set our sites on Srimangal, the tea capital of Bangladesh. Yesterday I was summoned to pick up the train tickets for our group, and if you haven't picked up on this omnipresent scenario, getting there was a journey. First, an American friend and I left our hotel to find a CNG that would take us to the airport for a reasonable price. Our first contender asked for 300 taka. I asked if he would take 150 taka, and he responded, "M'am, we are poor people here." Normally, this statement would send a foreigner over the edge in heartbreak and remorse, but having lived here for a month now, I cannot tolerate being ripped off any longer. A local would never accept such a price.

We continued along this street, haggling with drivers along the way, when a pack of five children started following us. Although we wouldn't even make eye contact with the children, they followed us for at least five minutes, yelling at us. Once they began touching us, we became extremely uncomfortable to the point where we yelled at them to stop touching us. Clearly amused by our discomfort, they followed us until we finally managed a fair price to the train station. As we departed, the spit kids spit on us through the CNG doorway. This was probably the lowest moment of my stay in Bangladesh. I wanted to cry; my feelings were so hurt. I wanted to shake these kids and tell them, "How do you expect to ever do anything with your lives if you can't even treat people with respect." I don't think any of the kids were older than nine. Their circumstances probably wouldn't allow them to understand their actions as deeply as I analyzed them. I felt both angry and helpless.

Just when the CNG felt like a sanctuary, a truck almost hit us. Our CNG driver accelerated to get a look at the truck driver. They began yelling back and forth until our CNG driver parked and got out of his vehicle, provoking the truck driver to also get out of his vehicle. My friend and I timidly observed the situation from our seats, ready to bolt out of the vehicle if the situation called for such measures. The truck driver slammed his hands on our three wheeled car, causing us to rock back and forth. Needless to say, we were scared. We waited out the aggression and only crashed into one bus on the way to the train station.

When we arrived, I could have kissed the ground. Instead, we found our way into the shortest line, as we could not read the Bangla written on the wall. We managed to get the five tickets we needed, however we did not manage to score seats in an air conditioned car or first class. We'll find out tomorrow what 696 takas (for five tickets) buys you on an intra-national train.

On the way back from the train station, we found ourselves immersed in monsoon season. Luckily, we caught a ride back without too much hassle. Instead of going straight home, I had tentatively set a dinner date with a couple of the Bangladeshi interns at a Korean BBQ restaurant. Since I could not BBQ at home on my nation's independence day, I found this to be the next bests option. I had heard such good things about Korean BBQ, and Bangladesh's large Korean population has apparently infiltrated the local cuisine. I must say, the beef I had last night was the best beef I have ever tasted. Something about the sauce and texture made it melt in your mouth. As someone who does not eat meat often, I could cave in to Korean BBQ on the regular.

After dinner, the four of us girls went back to one of the local girl's homes, ate treats, and watched the rendition of 21 Jumpstreet together. That morning, I had woken up depressed at the thought of missing Independence Day,  fireworks, and quality time with my family. That night, I went to bed feeling like I have made great friends here who I will miss a lot when I leave. From the moment I was spit on to moment before I went to bed, my mood had done a 180 degree turn. In the end, the 4th of July turned out to be a great success overseas.

What Bird Poop Can Teach a Person

So…a bird pooped on me tonight. There’s a first time for everything I guess. One of my fellow American interns and myself rode a rickshaw home. We saw what we thought was a spit wad land in a nearby puddle, but when we realized no one nearby could have possibly landed their spit in this particular puddle, we realized it came from something in the tree above us. Just moments after, droppings landed on my leg. I chose my words carefully, so not to jinx the situation. On the other hand, my buddy remarked, “At least it didn’t land on your head.” Twenty seconds later, a load dropped on her head. We burst out laughing and proceeded to howl for several minutes. Even our rickshaw driver and the gawkers on the street saw the whole incident and laughed.

Just last week, I watched one of the Bangladeshi interns chastise a waiter who accidentally spilled a couple drops of a piña colada on her (non-alcoholic of course). The scene was fascinating to me, as I cannot think of a single one of my friends who would react this way to such an honest mistake. We ended up getting a free meal, but it felt so wrong, as the entire restaurant stared at the scene our party had made.

These two occasions made me wonder how attitude changes from person to person, between cultures, and in different environments. It has been especially interesting to see how each of the BRAC interns enjoys their time in Bangladesh. One of my friends from the United States takes very little risk in the cuisine she eats, but yet she constantly pushes me to eat out with her and travel around the city. I find it so funny how she craves exploring Dhaka, yet wherever we go she seeks American culture. She, on the other hand, is probably baffled at my desire to read in my room and escape the chaos of Dhaka, yet when we go out to eat, I am the first one to try the risky, authentic food. Then there are the interns who hate the hustle and bustle of Dhaka and want to reschedule their departing flights for an earlier date. There are also the interns who have traveled to all sorts of third world countries and have such a cool attitude about this adventure.

I have had my ups and downs in Dhaka. Some days, I stare hopefully at airplanes departing from Dhaka International Airport, and I dream of returning home. Other days, I enthusiastically make plans to travel into the countryside. While I would say I am overall a pretty positive, adventure-seeking person, Dhaka has brought out a home-body side of me. In the United States, I can’t stand to spend entire days indoors, unless it’s finals week. One of the reasons I went to college in California was to take advantage of the outdoors all year round. I frequently brag at my ability to compete in an outdoor pool all winter. Here in Dhaka, spending a day inside with a book or writing letters to home is extremely satisfying. Initially, I worried that I had lost my spirit of adventure, but maybe I have discovered my limits.

Normally, I have very few inhibitions. I make decisions based on what I want to do, not necessarily what my friends want to do. If they want to join me, that’s great. If they don’t, then I’ll do what I want on my own. In Dhaka, I generally feel quite uncomfortable. I have come a long way since I first arrived here. Some days I even feel quite well adjusted, but for the most part, day-to-day living requires a lot of energy. In the context of Bangladesh, I still enjoy adventuring, but I am more okay missing out an exciting night on the town just to relax.

Maybe I am okay with this homebody lifestyle because Dhaka makes me appreciate every little thing that goes right during the day. My American friend could not have said it better on the rickshaw: “At least it didn’t land on your head.” I find myself thinking this way a lot in Dhaka. At least I haven’t gotten food poisoning; at least I don’t have dengue fever; at least I made it to my hotel safely; at least the rickshaw driver didn’t try to rip me off. Having to endure a 30-minute long rickshaw ride with a pile of crap on my leg may have ruined some people’s day, but after the hardships I have faced in Dhaka, this little incident didn’t phase me. While being in Dhaka has taught me a lot about the world, this change in environment has taught me more about myself. 

Observations in a Museum

Last weekend, I finally had a chance to indulge in one of my favorite vacation pastimes: visiting museum. I particularly enjoy art museums, but any chance to see culturally revealing artifacts amuses me. With a couple of friends, I traveled to the Liberation War Museum and as always, the journey there proved to be an adventure. Bangladesh houses two “must-see” museums: the National Museum and the Liberation War Museum. Big surprise, our CNG driver did not know where the Liberation War Museum was. He did know where the nearby park was, so we stopped there and asked the policeman on duty in the park. He did not know where the museum was either. The group of three policemen across the street did not know either. As we ran into more authority figures, we accrued bits of directions which we pieced together until we saw a group of rickshaws and decided to test our luck again. When we asked the rickshaw driver to take us to the National Museum, thinking we may have a better shot at finding this museum, he drove us directly to the Liberation War Museum. Go figure.

The entrance fee cost 5 taka, about half a cent. The museum had a yellow and red path drawn to guide visitors through the museum chronologically. I initially felt very unprepared for this museum, as the exhibits provided very little background information. My friends and I laughed at the displays with witty descriptions since the jokes were fairly incomprehensible for someone without fluent Bangla. We also couldn’t help but notice the paper display tags finished with ink-jet print were posted on the wall with push pins, as if this was a high school history research project. I don’t mean to bash this museum, but its displays took on a much different quality than even the art galleries on my college campus. Even so, Bangladesh’s Liberation War Museum managed to evoke strong emotions within me.

I knew going into this visit that this museum covered a fairly depressing chunk of Bengali history. What I did not realize is how well the U.S. museums I have attended sugar coat our history. Most notably, the Liberation War Museum houses dozens of skulls, rib cages, femurs, and various other bones from victims of the genocide which took place in Bangladesh before it gained its freedom. This on top of many gruesome pictures of disheveled, malnourished bodies tore at my heart. A picture of young, starving children holding hands and a caption reading, “This picture was taken moments before these children’s last breath” grabbed me like no other historical relic had ever grabbed me before. Something was so palpable about this picture and its context.

While the emotional stress of this museum exhausted me, the setting helped put me at ease. Three-fifths of the way through the museum, the path led visitors outside onto a balcony which lush trees invaded. Although I knew I was in the middle of Dhaka, I felt like I had entered a time capsule that brought me back in time and into the jungle, before this bustling city had sprung up and before the strife of newfound independence.

For one, the museum taught me that once in a third world country, you’re stuck in a third world country. This museum did not measure up to the caliber I expected. When we entered, a sign read that a mere 430,000 visitors have come to this museum. Personally, I see museums as a must-do activity in any city, but when one-third of your population lives on less than $1 per day, you cannot expect that many locals have indulged in their own cultural offerings. Nor can you expect that the museum is state of the art. Another thing this museum reaffirmed was the stark reality of the third world. At home in America, in can be easy to hide in my 6-acre plot of land on the edge of rural Minnesota, or in my private liberal arts college of 1350 students, or under my covers, under my canopy bed, under my beautiful roof with my beautiful, healthy family. Although I am in the most developed district of Dhaka, the most developed city in Bangladesh, poverty does not escape. The government is trying to push the slums to the outskirts of the city, but even if they could, poverty permeates too many aspects of this city for its citizens to lose sight of reality. The beggars crowding Gulshan Avenue, the helmet-less construction workers building skyscrapers dozens of meters above ground, the frail rickshaw drivers wearing tattered, sweat stained clothing; they remind me every day of hardships people face here in Bangladesh and all over the world. They remind me just how easy I have it, and just how few people have it that easy.

The Moment I've Been Waiting For

Since arriving in Bangladesh, there is one thing I have wanted to do pretty desperately. The problem is, it was not something I had much control over. It relied on me planting strategic, passive-aggressive comments in conversations and knowing the right people. Last night, my diligence and desperation paid off; I attended a wedding ceremony.

During my first week of work, I had expressed my curiosity of Bangladeshi weddings to my intern supervisor. She told me about how she had taken 10 days off of work for her five-ceremony wedding (the ceremonies are held every other day). When I told my host mom about this, she retorted, "Only five days?! That's a short one." During the field visit in Manikanj, I had a little sneak preview of a Bangladeshi wedding, which only further excited me.

Then last night, in the midst of a fancy meal at Spaghetti Jazz, The Lonely Planet's #1 restaurant recommendation in Gulshan, I received a text message from my work partner, asking if I would like to attend a wedding event with her. Obviously there was no real question here, and my friends and I gulped our dinners down as quickly as possible. The ladies raced home and suited up in our nicest kameezes, and our male counterpart dressed in his best panjabi (which he had to borrow from my work partner's father).

Ornately decorated stage.
Look at all the flowers!

On the ride to the event, my work partner explained exactly what this event was that we would attend. It is called holud, and it is a party that the bride and groom both have on separate nights before the wedding. Last night, we attended the groom's holud. By the time we arrived, we had missed the groom's ornate processional into the room, where he rode on some sort of throne under an umbrella while being fanned with giant, golden, bejeweled, peacock-feather-covered fans. In the front of the room, the groom sat with platters of sweet foods and turmeric powder. Groups of friends, family, and acquaintances came up to the stage, smudged turmeric powder on the groom, and spoon fed him sweets. What is the purpose for all this? When I asked my friend she giggled and asked her mom, who also giggled and asked the mother of the bride. The lucky mother came over and told us how the turmeric powder is supposed to brighten the groom's complexion and make him glow for the wedding. We feed the groom desserts to give him something sweet before the wedding.

feeding the groom rice pudding

My first observation was, of course, the extremely brightly colored and coordinated clothing. I asked my friend why most everyone was wearing red and green, and she told me people like to coordinate their outfits. Almost all the men wore green panjabis and many of the women wore red saris, particularly the bride's family. Their outfits were beautiful. I was particularly enamored with their earrings which were made with actual flowers. I am definitely making myself a pair of those for my wedding. Another interesting fact is our relation to the soon-to-be-married couple. My friend's mom's sister's sister-in-law's daughter was the bride. Does that make sense? The point is, Bangladeshi weddings are extremely inclusive, a trait I would also like in my wedding. Finally, I had to ask about the religious aspect of the wedding. Many of the women wore bindis (the small circles worn on the forehead, often seen in Indian culture), which I did not realize was prevalent in the Muslim religion. I also learned that this particular ceremony, though Muslim, was specific to Bangladeshi-Muslims. Having been part of India, a predominantly Hindu nation, Bangladeshis have mixed a lot of Hindu culture into their Muslim culture. The style in which Bangladeshis celebrate weddings would not be the same in the Middle East, for example.

Of course a South Asian event cannot be complete without adequately feeding the guests. The waiters rushed out of the kitchen with heaping plates of naan bread, yogurt sauce, fried beef cakes, and chicken. That was our appetizer. Next came the mutton byriani, a rice dish with goat meat and potatoes mixed in. Of course, the boneless, skinless variety does not exist here so I had to pull some gigantic bones out of the tender mutton chunks. The rich meat tasted divine; I could not come close to finishing my plate of food.

Next came my favorite part of the night: dancing. The men were the first on the dance floor. It was especially interesting to see a relatively modest crowd of women. I always feel I must beg most of my male friends to dance with me and my female friends willingly join. It was so fun to see everyone so happy and spirited. Many movies that westerners see about marriages in South Asia tend to have negative portrayals of the forceful, pressure-filled marriages. These certainly exist, but during this event, all these feelings of animosity were forgotten as families and friends came together, ate, talked, and danced.

This was probably one of the more fun nights of being in Bangladesh. It was a chance to experience one of the happiest aspects of any culture. In their state of merriment, the family graciously invited us to attend the wedding reception tomorrow, and I cannot wait!

The bride's family circling the groom. Check out their beautiful, handmade earrings. Those are real flowers! Some of them also have chains of orange flowers in their hair. They looked so beautiful.

A very happy groom.

The Book of Job

Unfortunately, the only way I can describe this past week is through the gruesome Book of Job from the Bible. Those who have read it know that in this story, God decides to test Job, one of his most devoted worshipers. He plagues Job with horrible diseases, pain, and suffering. Since I moved into this new apartment, I have gone through a series of less severe ailments that have made living in Dhaka miserable. Is God testing me too? Maybe.

So I went to the doctor, which per usual, was an adventure in and of itself. The first rickshaw driver I flagged rolled his eyes and pedaled away when I asked him to take me to the hospital. It’s not like this country has fatal diseases or anything… The second rickshaw driver, older and probably with a daughter of his own, gladly took me on the journey. The ride was oddly scenic, as it twisted and turned through foliage-covered apartment buildings. Every sharp corner, I braced the rickshaw seat like it was a rollercoaster. A few minutes deep into this labyrinth, we suddenly met the busy road.

The rickshaw wallah dropped me off and pointed to the “Cholera Hospital” building. His kind heart and my relief made me feel extra generous, so I gave him a whopping 100 takas, a little less than a dollar and a quarter. I was thankful find that almost everyone I encountered in the dirt cul-de-sac of hospital buildings was actually bilingual, which came in handy since this hospital was not organized quite like a Park Nicollet. I found the Traveler’s Clinic in a semi-deserted building with shards of drywall swept into the corners of the hallways. The service was great; I couldn’t have asked for a better visit. Now the challenge will be staying healthy for another five weeks. Last night, I was not sure, but today I am up for that challenge.

Speaking of challenges, I have finally begun to wrap my mind around the challenges BRAC faces in maintaining a good reputation among Bangladeshis. One of the Bangladeshi interns studies journalism, so over the weekend, she went to a conference for journalists sponsored by BRAC. I was shocked to hear the horrible things some of the journalists said about BRAC. As favors, BRAC distributed nice notebooks, and one of the journalists muttered under their breath, “The one nice thing BRAC has ever done.” Unbelievable!

I thought back to a scene in one of my favorite movies, Slumdog Millionaire. Remember when the protagonist is in the bathroom, and the game show host slyly feeds him an answer? Remember how the protagonist takes the 50/50 lifeline and opts not to choose the host’s recommendation? His whole life, the slum dog had to very carefully choose who he could and could not trust. If he trusted the wrong person, he could end up dead. I use this explanation to justify the way Bangladeshis feel about BRAC. Bangladeshis have watched their government, development organizations, and ordinary people cheat and come out on top. Corruption has plagued this country and stifled its ability to flourish. It’s no wonder they are skeptical of BRAC.

On the flip side, BRAC could be doing a better job of advertising its achievements. Just the other day, I was having a conversation with a couple of the interns, one who is interning with the social media branch of communications. She wondered why western-based development organizations like Oxfam received so much more publicity. When one of their workers is kidnapped, it’s all over the news. When a BRAC employee is kidnapped, no one knows. In my opinion, the western countries see their work as a selfless charity. They are reaching outside of their borders, into worlds unknown to them, to do work that doesn’t necessarily benefit them. In the western world, selfless acts don’t receive much monetary compensation, so they get recognition. That’s why resumes have volunteer sections, so that employers can see that you are more than just academically and professionally excellent.

BRAC, on the other hand, was founded in a developing country, and the work it does directly benefits Bangladesh. BRAC came about as more of a necessity than a selfless act. No one would put house volunteer on their resume if they clothed, fed, and medicated their siblings when their parents were out working. This is a necessity, not a volunteer opportunity. What I am trying to say is that BRAC’s leadership sees its work as essential, and therefore, BRAC has been modest about its achievements. When westerners find out what BRAC is doing, they are amazed at the difference it has made in Bangladesh, and now throughout the world.

My first thought upon hearing about BRAC was not “Hm…this story seems too good to be true. There must be something off here.” It sounded a little bit more like “Wow! This is great! When can I start changing the world with BRAC?” Maybe I am too optimistic. I think that growing up with a relatively transparent government, has made me a trusting person. The Bangladeshis, like Job, have been tested time after time to have faith in their government and corporations with no transparency. Since BRAC is not God, it is time for BRAC to come clean with its facts and figures. From what I can tell, BRAC will only benefit from becoming more transparent. 

True Life: I Grew up in a Developed Country

For those of you that haven’t heard of MTV’s series True Life, it is a reality TV show that documents about five people per show who all share a certain quirk. Episodes have included True Life: I am a Beauty Queen, True Life: I Live with My Parents, and True Life: I am Obese. As you can imagine, some shows are more dramatic than others. The most shocking episodes are those in which the interviewees gradually realize their destitute state after living a life of ignorance. As the title of this blog post suggests, I realized just how provincial of a life I have lived.

Having my Brazilian friend from school visit was probably the best thing that could have happened in my dire state. Saturday afternoon, I woke up feeling mediocre and by 7:00 that night, I knew I was ill. I woke up Sunday morning hardly able to open my eyes, fearing for my life (who knows what kind of diseases one can acquire in Bangladesh). At this point, I was extremely flustered; away from home, the only consistency one has is the comfort inside their own skin. Suddenly, I no longer had this consistency or comfort.

After a few hours of complaining on my part, my friend explained that no matter where people travel for extended periods of time, they find something to complain about, a cultural trait that drives us mad. Suddenly I realized that every year at college, not only do the international students suffer the rigor of college academics, but they feel just as destitute as I did this weekend. When I thought I experienced a little culture shock moving from Minnesota to California, I was clueless.

Throughout my life, I had put America on a pedestal and assumed everyone else saw it this way. When I asked international students if they planned to stay in the United States, I was always shocked to hear that they wanted to move back home. Why would you want to leave this beautiful, free, limitless country? Well, not everyone sees it this way. Through the support of a friend from college, but born in a world so different than my own, I was able to fully comprehend Judy Garland’s famous line, “There’s no place like home.” The Bangladeshis I work with get sick when they come home for the summers, they hate the traffic in Dhaka, and they find their country’s cinema repulsive, and yet they miss home horribly when they study overseas.

Part of me is a little embarrassed that all this time, I assumed citizens of third world countries would choose life in the United States over their lives in the developing world. There may be some benefits to life in developed countries, but nothing can replace the culture and people that make your nation feel like home. Having accepted that I will not feel home until I am with my family and within U.S. borders, I am focusing on aspects of the culture in Bangladesh that I like and will miss when I am home. There are so many things I am learning here that I could not have learned in the United States, even at one of the top universities in the world. 

Just for fun, my friends showed me this super endearing olympics promotional video. I almost cried, maybe because I'm a little homesick, but the video also reminded me that it doesn't matter where in the world you are, the support of family is universally important.

Weekend Warrior

Where do I begin describing the last 24 hours. They have been the most shocking and exciting since arriving in Bangladesh. At this time yesterday, I was in route to exchange keys and move into my new apartment. My new roommate and I made it just in time before the previous tenant left for the airport. Simultaneously, my Brazilian buddy from College, just arrived safely at his hotel. Like any average person, the traffic left him dumbstruck as he experienced six near-death experiences on the 11 km journey. He did not believe me when I told him the best way to get from his hotel to my apartment was via rickshaw.

On his way to the new apartment, I met the co-tenants who stay in the other bedroom: a young, eccentric Spanish couple. They appreciate the origins of my name, and I have spoken a little Spanish with them. I managed to set up some sort of internet access (still cannot access my school email or blog; I had to upload this remotely). Interestingly, my American phone found cell service. Our friendly co-tenants also gave us the low down on the party that we would attend that evening.

Last week, the Australian intern did a bit of research on the expatriate clubs in Dhaka. She found out when all the parties are, particularly those which do not require membership. Every Thursday, the Nordic Club hosts a dance party so the BRAC interns decided that we must go. Sure enough, the DJ for the night was an Italian friend of our co-tenants. 


When we arrived at the club, I experienced a second wave of culture shock. Firstly, I had not been surrounded by that many Caucasians since being home. Secondly, I had never been surrounded by so many blondes in my life. If I had spontaneously developed amnesia last night, I would not have believed that I was in Bangladesh. As more and more people arrived, the crowd became increasingly diverse. The craziest event of the night was running into a fellow Claremont McKenna College student (CMC-er). Interning at Grameen Bank, another microfinance and development organization, we enjoyed exchanging our experiences working at our respective organizations. The night was a remarkable display of the forces that bring people together. I could not believe how Bangladesh, this country the size of Iowa, had connected all of us from far corners of the world. 


The drive home at 2:30 am was less than pleasurable, as the barren streets and eerie atmosphere left us all quite spooked. Luckily we had a safe mode of transportation, but it made me hyper aware of the limitations men and especially women have in enjoying their home city. Any woman without the luxuries of a driver can kiss the night life goodbye. 

Awesome boat tour! Best part of the day in Old Dhaka.

Fast forward five hours later to my alarm clock, alerting me to wake up for a 9:00 am walking tour of Old Dhaka. About 7 km south of BRAC Center is Old Dhaka, the more historical and central area of Dhaka city. It houses many old and beautiful places of worship and ruins that date back to the Mughal Empire (early 1600s). This part of Dhaka itself dates back to the 7th century, and the people exhibit these traditional roots. Normally during the call to prayer, people continue about their daily routine, but in Old Dhaka, we saw people congregate and all worship in unison outside of mosques. 

When the tour guide approached this super creepy, hole in
the wall,  I could not believe he expected us to enter. He
led us through a maze of small caverns which were
apparently used to host overseas travelers centuries ago.
As you can see, these made for very cozy accommodations.

Being a foreigner became very apparent in this part of town. The lack of large companies in Old Dhaka means less frequent foreign visitors. Needless to say, our tour group expanded gradually throughout the day with gawkers. The most exciting part of the tour was riding boats along the river. Kids excitedly waved at our group and swam up to the boat to greet us. On the scenic (depending on how you look at it) boat ride, I thought about how welcoming the Bangladeshis were toward us. Although their friendliness could be interpreted as creepy and invasive, I find it endearing and inspirational. On numerous accounts, Bangladeshis have referred to their country has poor. The sight of foreigners in their country excites them; they are thankful to see that people care about their country and appreciate its beauty. 


At the Nordic Club, one of the Bangladeshis I met responded to my positive remarks about Bangladesh saying, “Go home and tell all your friends about how great Bangladesh is. Tell them to come and see this beauty of this country.” Like me, this boy has immense pride for his country.  The difference is that the Bangladeshis welcome foreigners with enthusiasm. In its commencement, the United States did just this, helping to create the melting pot it is today. The reputation we have gained has caused us to take our desirability for granted. Instead of welcoming foreigners like we used to, we are tightening our borders, making it harder for others to enjoy the beauty we have created. I hope that the United States can regress to its welcoming attitude. Instead of simply applauding diversity, I hope Americans can embrace foreign thought, culture, and people the same way Bangladesh welcomes its foreign visitors.

This picture started off with just the boy in the yellow shirt and myself. Within a matter of seconds, a crowd formed, cameras ready.